


Gods of an Unfamiliar Reality; Villains of an Odder Variety

by Forgotten_Logic



Series: Primal Matters [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Destruction, Forming Societies, Other, Slow Build, Slow Burn, They are all literally family, Why do I do this to myself, like beginning of everything on Cybertron, very very pre-war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 10:05:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14518110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forgotten_Logic/pseuds/Forgotten_Logic
Summary: A new way to see just how, or rather another reason why, Megatronus is who he his. Albeit, leaving much to curiosity.





	Gods of an Unfamiliar Reality; Villains of an Odder Variety

If the harsh rumble that tore through the city had been an indicator of what had happened, it was just short of its true gravity. The ground ended with steel thrown about and strewn through other buildings, shattered glass littered floors, but that was all in a normal day. 

The earliest days of Cybertron were dangerous ones. Chaos caused by deities whom _ate_ anyone or anything (or planet) that posed as an obstacle. Their names lost to the stars and ill-written history, civilization of this dawning Centuri were blatantly ignorant of their past. And yet, never asked why their home was a scarred landscape, lain to waste by Primes that were sworn to protect it. 

They all got used to the screams and younglings learned rather quickly that life is short. For beings whose lifespans far outreached those of under-evolved organics, the difference in this age was minute. If deities whose troubles with Cybertron and her being were to continue to slaughter a moving mech, life would gain a new shortness. 

The westward winds blew through, sweeping the debris through the torn streets; sturdy bronze chassis heaved against the gust, unflinching at the glass chipping away at a dusty frame. 

Broken buildings had a slow trickle of mecha, not quite approaching the bronze protector but not quite shying away either. Smaller mecha—younglings—were the only ones that came close, unafraid of the god that stood tall above all of them. The churr in their voice boxes was still there, their youth still abundant in the tiny frames. And how their creators, how they stammered, hissing for them to return to them for fear still.

The civilians were more lax when it came to their goddess, all of the same spark as the citrine colored mech. Perhaps it was the heather chassis and thin appearing armor, decorated with glyphs of a language that even the mecha they protected could not begin to know. These people they gartered were blissfully unaware of the power that she—the two mecha alone—wrought. 

The time had come to clear away the of destruction from another victory. 

“Morterre is still at large. His signal has been hovering over the Bay of Rust,” a bulky frame half hidden by a cloak said warily, “How much damage was caused?” He turned his head, metal beard crackled against his chassis. “Casualties?”

“The West of Centurion with 14 building; 29 casualties.” The heather warrior dropped her hammer on its head, standing at attention on the ground. “He’s trying harder, it’s only a matter of time before he’ll strike Maccadam’s, make the whole city blow back to The Well,” Solus hissed. “Has his signal moved at all?”

Epistemus hummed, used to his sister’s budding temper. His systems flared as external scans for the one mech that the very disciple of death himself—well, one of three. The energy of Morterre moved farther west, towards the Hydrax Plateau. “West, quickly.”

Periwinkle optics darkened a shade, back and shoulder flexed. The edge of a pewter blaster tapped at the heather femme, causing her glare to go to him, to wit caused no affect on him. Solus’ heated stare was never really enough to stave off Megatronus, far too used to it with how she refused to follow anyones order except hers alone.

“Sister,” Megatronus composed, “there is little that we can’t do. Morterre is not a fool and neither are we.” He placed a sharp edged servo on her no-so-sharp arm, to which she shrugged off with a huff from her side vents. 

“What is the point you’re getting at?” She moved so swiftly that his optics barely had time to notice that even now she bore a battle stance. “There are people out there—dying. Get to the point.”

Smoothly, he said: “The point being that there are four of us and three of them.”

“Technically two of us since 1, you never seem to leave the Undercove and 2, the only reason I don’t leave is because there are better things to be done,” Epistemus interjected.

Solus hissed “You’re both useless.” She took up her hammer, energy pulsed from it, from her center and to its core. “Zounderkites,” she spat. “The only mecha here who actually takes up a sword with me is Solomus. We are the ones who attempt to both protect and keep the peace. If you’re going to provide some _useful_ information, then come forth with it. But until then straighten up and shut up and serve your function properly,” she gnarred, slamming the bottom grip on the ground, sending a rumble through the entire shadow stricken hallow. And she was gone, amongst the other shadows.

Epistemus moved to face Megatronus, his armor flaring. “You see you did?”

“Me? Hardly. You’re the one that said something that made her angry,” Megatronus criticized.

“That’s not anger; that’s frustration and she’s frustrated with you!”

“And you!” Megatronus jabbed an accusing digit towards Epistemus. “You’re in just as much fault as I.”

“I at least produce something useful. I fulfil _my_ function.” 

“Amalgamous—” Megatronus stepped through the doors to Maccadam’s as if he had owned the place himself ”—I need a favor.” 

Amalgamous, sand colored frame with golden tendrils jumping from joints, which were frelling everywhere. He was not a simple mecha with simply a bipedal frame with two arms and a head that could be distinguished from the frame, no. His—where a torso should have been—was where his head was hidden, hidden by an entanglement of limbs. Some jutting out from the side or top (of course the bottom) but it was always in a constant state of motion.

“A mech such as yourself requires more than a mere favor. What is it?” He’d sensed this coming, sensed that Megatronus had wanted to do something. It read like a book in his field, how it flared and bounded around the humble bar. “It’s never simple with you.”

“I need you to change me.”

“Do what—your frame suits your purpose of protector,” Amalgamous sounded mortified, certainly because of his brother. 

Megatronus placed a servo on the counter, steely gray, and sat down. He did not go so far as to explain why and only pointed to the back of the bar, at its display case, and saying: “Uranium Spit.” 

Amalgamous grumbled with a flex of limbs, grabbing and mixing above his head. To an onlooker it would be perhaps artful if not a bit showy. The emerald liquid began to boil in the container, other ingredients reacting in a slower matter than the decomposition of the cubic holder. 

Only after Megatronus was served, after took a tentative swig, did he then explain to his older brother his wishes. “I have a new purpose.” _Their worst enemy._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank u so much for reading! :3 Please leave a comment or if you're feeling generous, a kudos! :3


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